


All You Need Is

by Ritzy_bird



Series: JeanMarco Month 2017 [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, It's a wild ride but if you can get through it there IS a positive outcome folks, M/M, No Character Death, Positive ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 20:11:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11169201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ritzy_bird/pseuds/Ritzy_bird
Summary: Whoever started preaching "all you'll ever need is love" probably should've added some disclaimers about things like, consistent financial and emotional support to go with it.[JeanMarco Month 2017 - Prompt: Heart Song/Healing]





	All You Need Is

**Author's Note:**

> And now for my specialty: Ambiguously Modern AUs that are only Modern AUs because they don't have things like oxycontin and pumpkin spice lattes in canon, but would otherwise fit in any setting.
> 
> Much much thanks to my beta dat_heichou for reading through this baby and fixing the errors through the tears for me!

Jean was not a doctor, or a therapist, or a counselor, or _anyone_ who was qualified to handle this. He liked to think he had a 6th sense, but he knew it was just him being cautious about everything these days. 

Whichever it really was, he knew immediately when he got home that something was wrong. Practically every light in the apartment was on, which could only mean 1 thing: Marco had been pacing, thinking, struggling with something he didn't think to call someone about. Well, to call Jean about. There weren't really others he could talk to anymore.

Marco hated it whenever Jean freaked out by assuming the worst and running around like a chicken with its head cut off just to find him, to make sure he was okay. Jean took a deep breath as he tossed his keys on the small dining table, walking towards the back of their little home and into the bedroom. 

It seemed to be the only room with the light turned off, and Jean wanted to shake his head and laugh at Marco for being so dramatic. But he couldn't risk that kind of joke, not if Marco was relapsing. 

"Why's the light off?" Jean asked casually, his eyes desperately trying to make out Marco's face in the dark. The light coming in the room from the nearby bathroom light, and the living room lights behind him, weren't enough to make things clear.

"...Head hurts." Marco answered dryly. It was then that Jean realized Marco had his head bent down, his face impossible to see no matter how much light there was. "'M tired." Marco added on at the end, his voice cracking. Just like before. Eerily like before.

Jean swallowed, wishing he could force back those memories that shamed him almost as much as he could only imagine Marco was by them. Neither of them were proud of they way they'd treated each other in the past, but this was how they had to make up for it, no matter how hard it was.

___

It took a car accident at as young as 25 to truly break Marco down. Jean had been shaken to the core when he'd first heard the news, and he'd nearly gotten into an accident himself trying to make it to the hospital. And when he _did_ , he had to see Marco immediately, he had to, because Marco was okay. Marco had to be okay.

"Marco!? Marco, oh my _God_ , Marco, y-you're okay!" Jean sobbed as he got his first glimpse at Marco in the hospital bed. His face was bandaged in some areas, but other than that? Other than that he was-- He wasn't okay? 

The room was completely silent, and Marco turned his head away from Jean, instead choosing to stare at the wall. Jean looked around the room, his eyes darting back and forth between Marco's other friends and family in the room. 

"I-I'm sorry I'm late," Jean tried to explain, in the belief that his absence had been disrespectful. "I was so far away and, the traffic... I guess, hahhah, you, you know all about the bad traffic." He tried to joke, wiping the tears from his face. 

Marco's mother was the one to save Jean from his ignorance, turning to look Jean in the eyes, "The doctors say," She started strongly, though the worry in her voice clear as day, "Marco may never walk again." 

Jean's attention was drawn to the corner of the room, where a wheelchair sat, and then he looked back to Marco. Startlingly, Marco was now looking straight at him, his eyes holding tears, his face red, his lips firmly planted together. 

" _Get out_." Marco breathed out, his voice revealing the threat of full on tears. It was chilling to see him this way, to see him cry, to be on the verge of a breakdown. It wasn't like him at all; Marco almost never cried about anything. 

No one moved an inch though, almost as if none of them heard him. And for how quiet he was? Perhaps. But not with how silent they'd all been, no, they definitely heard him. They just... couldn't move.

"Leave!" Marco demanded, inhaling sharply as more tears poured from his eyes. He squeezed them shut, but it didn't make them stop coming. 

Jean was the first to move, walking forward towards Marco with his arm stretched out with the intent to comfort him. "Marco, w--" It only seemed to upset Marco more though. 

"Get the Hell out! Just, just _go_!" Marco snapped back in interruption. His voice's pitch raised, and it cracked, and his breathing wavered as he truly started to cry. 

What were any of them supposed to do, to say? Could they really just abandon Marco like this, to let him stew in his tragedy? "It'll be okay!" Jean insisted, blindly saying the first thing he thought would be any kind of comfort. 

The second of rarities for the day occurred as Marco turned his head to look around at all the people in the room; His parents, his friends, co-workers, his boyfriend.... And by God, Marco looked absolutely furious the more he stared at them and their pained faces, " _Get, out! Get the **fuck** out of here right now!_ "

Out of shock of the raged shouting, most everyone left the room in a hurry, deeming it best to let Marco have some peace. But Marco's closest friends, his parents, and of course Jean, the people who knew how out of character this was for him, couldn't bring themselves to do so.

Jean was crying all over again, his mouth quivering as he saw how broken Marco was at the news. Marco, who was always so optimistic, so hopeful and committed to staying calm. Jean wanted to tell him that nothing was certain, that there was still a chance, that things would be okay. Because that's what Marco would tell him if things were reversed. 

"Please go, just go, just, just leave...!" Marco pleaded meekly, bringing his hands up to his face, sobbing. 

____

That had been the beginning of the many tests of their relationship that ended up in failure, but nights like these were how Jean could use what he learned from those mistakes to try and do better. 

Once he was close enough to the bed, Jean noticed that Marco was holding something in his hand. Quickly, he realized it was an orange pill bottle. He tensed, butterflies rising up in his stomach for a moment as the anxiety in him took hold, twisting his stomach uncomfortably. 

"Marco, look at me...." Jean muttered, sitting down across from him, eyes focused on the bottle. Were there any pills in there? Yes. How Marco kept getting a hold of them, Jean could probably guess, but at the same time he wasn't interested in hunting down the culprit again. 

Not getting a response either verbally or physically, Jean reached his hand forward to wrap around the bottle as well, his fingers gently rubbing over Marco's. He looked up to meet Marco's eyes, should he ever show them. 

Marco seemed like he wasn't going to look up. He could've been embarrassed, or ashamed. Whether it was because he'd relapsed or not, Jean wasn't sure yet. Regardless, he was no stranger to Marco's intense shame.

___

It took the loss of a job to bring out the worst in Marco. The things everyone's taught from a young age not to say, to not even think, because they weren't nice. Dark and nasty thoughts that, without a filter, were the makings of a real asshole. 

Jean was cleaning up the dining room table when Marco got the phone call, and of course he'd no reason to eavesdrop. It wasn't until he heard the scoff from Marco's mouth that he thought to pay attention to the conversation.

"What do you mean you're 'letting me go'? Y-you can't fire me, just because I got into an accident!" Marco scoffed. "It's only been 6 months-- No, _no_ , I'm gonna get better, I just need- Don't interrupt me, stop, just-- I'm getting better!" Marco raised his voice, but he wasn't pleading. 

In fact he was very insistent and determined, so much so that it almost made Jean smile to hear him believe so strongly that one day, he'd get better.

"Someone to... someone to _what_?" Marco's voice changed, a bitterness creeping into it that soured even Jean's hopeful thoughts for the moment. It was ominous, and Jean wished the era of home phones was still around, so that he really could listen in on things. 

"Just because I'm in a **wheelchair** doesn't mean I can't come pick up my things!" Marco finally shouted, venom in his voice at the mention of his wheelchair. He hung up his phone shortly afterwards and put it down on the coffee table harder than necessary. He didn't slam it but, well, had it been an iPhone? Broken for sure.

Understanding what the conversation had been, Jean frowned, his heart feeling almost constricted in mourning on Marco's behalf. He'd always liked his job, and most of the people he worked with. This, this wouldn't be easy for Marco to move past. Who knows, they might even have to move into a smaller apartment, if Marco didn't find a job soon enough. 

Refusing to linger on the negative, Jean tried to think about the more hopeful possibilities. Marco had all kinds of skills, and he had probably the best work ethic! More so than Jean, definitely. 

Jean walked towards Marco, ready to give him the best pep talk he could. "Hey," Marco turned around to look up at him, his expression understandably hurt. "I heard what you were saying, and...."

"Don't look down at me like that." Marco snapped, his brows furrowing. He quickly turned back around, refusing to look at Jean. "And stop staring at my face." It stung to see him lash out like that, but Jean knew it was only because Marco was still struggling with learning how to function everywhere in a wheelchair. Losing his job was stressing him to his breaking point.

"I'm not- I'm not looking down on you, Marco, you're in a wheelchair and I'm just looking you in the eyes. And I don't stare at your face, okay? Those scars are barely noticeable, you don't have to be self conscious about them with me. " Jean sighed, resting one of his hands on Marco's shoulders to rub it gently. It wouldn't solve much, but he thought it might relax him even somewhat.

Marco moved forward and away from Jean, spinning his entire chair around to send him a glare, "I know I'm in a wheelchair, Jean! You don't have to tell me, _God_ you're so insensitive."

Taken aback, Jean blinked and shook his head. Only so much sympathy could be offered to someone who was being so, for lack of a nicer word, difficult. "Yeah okay, I know, but I'm still not looking _down_ on you! I love you an' I'm just trying to help. I've lost jobs before, and you'll find another one, alright?"

Marco only shook his head right back, a hollow laugh almost shorter than Jean's patience emitting from him, "Not any jobs you had to actually work for! I, I put my whole life into that company and they just, they just told me to screw off!"

"Don't be a dick, Marco, just because I didn't graduate the top of my class and get any fancy internships doesn't mean I don't work hard." Jean defended himself, struggling to keep his cool. Marco was never one to argue like this, it was part of the reason why they were so good together. Keeping each other in check.

"Yes Jean you worked _really hard_ for your job at Target. And you just love it so much too, right?" Marco shot back sarcastically, though not challenging Jean with any kind of douchebag glaring contest. 

Fed up with Marco's uncharacteristic lashing out, Jean just scoffed and turned around, leaving to go do the laundry, "Whatever." He wouldn't play this game with him, not when at the end of the day Marco was kind of right. But just because he was right, didn't mean it was necessary, or that Marco wasn't being an ass. 

Part of what made Marco's blooming attitude so alarming to everyone was that no one ever thought it was in him. He always seemed so graceful, perfectly polite, and even a bit on the side of innocent.

The idea that he was, in a way, just like everyone else, dark thoughts and pain-driven outbursts included, only salted the wounds his words inflicted. Jean, and likely everyone else, had just hoped and assumed that Marco would start acting normally once he'd accepted his situation.

_____

Marco's hand was so stiff, Jean could only assume that it'd been gripping that bottle so tightly for a while. Which begged the question: Did Marco take any? There was no way to know for sure. Marco could've gotten high hours ago, and be perfectly coherent now. 

Jean breathed in and out through his nose, unsure of how to handle this. It had been a while since the last time he had to have this conversation with him, and he knew that there was never any warning for when it'd next happen. 

"Did you--...." Jean began to ask, but stopped when he saw Marco slowly shake his head back and forth. This kind of relief was almost like a high in and of itself, relaxing some of the tensity in Jean's body that every time, he didn't realize was so strongly there until it'd passed. 

Again, he swallowed. This wasn't over, it was just the first step. Marco could very well be lying to him, not that Jean would be able to tell. He'd always been a decent liar, and becoming an addict had only forced Marco to sharpen that skill. Only through the repeated hurt Marco caused strengthening Jean's lack of faith in him did Jean ever catch him in lies.

"Please look at me." Jean demanded as he had before, more firmly but still with a gentleness to his voice. He really hoped Marco wasn't high right now, and he held his breath in anticipation for a reaction.

Marco carefully lifted his head just enough so they could look at each other, and it was something shockingly familiar for Jean to see something like fear in those eyes. The fear that everyone had instilled in him, time and again, when they cared more about scolding him than helping him. But his eyes were wide and alive, not just looking at but seeing Jean, watching him. 

He wasn't high, at least not right now. Jean did notice, however, that Marco's eyelids were swollen and his face was ever so slightly pink. 

"What were you crying about?" Jean asked, his voice wavering slightly. He brought his hand up to run his fingers through Marco's hair, trying to offer him comfort. It always hurt him to see Marco like this; Ashamed, scared, hurting. Marco went to NA meetings, but they weren't always enough. 

Unfortunately, most people had given up on Marco's recovery years ago. After 9 years of tearing his own life apart, people lost faith. They wouldn't pitch in to pay for him to see a good therapist. Likely because Marco had thrown away all his best opportunities at good, qualified help a long time ago.

Jean faltered, mouth hanging open with a gasp as he felt something somewhat tacky in Marco's hair that he hadn't expected. Marco let his head bend down again, not saying a word. But he hadn't done it soon enough, and Jean realized what he'd been looking at but had been too dark to see.

He looked down at the one hand of Marco's that he could see, and leaned to the side to let more light onto it. There was some red under a few fingernails, and the orange bottle was decorated in white lines. Enough so, to help Jean understand just how bad of a day it'd been. 

More frequently in the past than now, Marco had the awful tendency to scratch at things when he was anxious. Innocently, it was a cute mannerism that Jean always adored. At some point it'd become an unforgivably tenacious compulsion. A nervous tick that he'd get so lost in doing he ended up damaging something to a degree. 

This was not the first time Jean had seen Marco scratch at his skin so much that it tore and sometimes, like now, even bled. But Marco swore up and down that it wasn't intentional, and that it didn't even hurt until long after he'd stopped and realized what he'd absentmindedly done while lost in his thoughts. 

_____

To this day, Jean still isn't sure what really drove Marco to rely so heavily on drugs. That fabled new job everyone insisted would come along, never did. Every opportunity that came up, Marco never got. His resume just wasn't enough to make up for his disability, and each time it only disheartened Marco more. Made him hate his situation more. 

Jean wished it was just their romantic relationship that was suffering, but, it was everyone around Marco. They'd always been walking on eggshells since the accident, not wanting to be insensitive to his new way of life. But this? Now everyone just did what they could not to annoy Marco by the slightest of offenses. 

It truly only worked to ruin Marco's temperament, making the near-miracle of him being able to stand again seem far less hopeful than it should have been. Still on crutches, though, Marco's little bits of enthusiasm at every interview he had was still squandered out. 

No one ever thought about how despite Marco not having a job, he still had _money_. With the dwindling financial support he got from his friends and family, he had no need to drain his bank accounts for the standard essentials. 

Jean couldn't understand how Marco could be so crude just because of a car accident and a lost job, because this just wasn't the person everyone always knew him to be. There were of course, times where Marco would get snippy with people, but it was never like this. And it'd been over 2 years so... when was he going to stop?

Apparently, Marco seemed to have found that he didn't need to change his ways to be any happier. There were ways to get around any unsavory feelings that were brought on when he chose to reveal his most negative, honest feelings with everyone in the tactless of ways. Like his pain medication.

"Did you wash the stuff that's been sitting in the hallway forever, Jean?" Marco called from the bathroom, the buzz of his toothbrush following after. He sounded rather pleasant, and that may or may not have been because they'd just had make-up sex the night before but, whatever. Jean cherished all of Marco's better moments these days. 

"No? Not yet, but, I can do 'em now." Jean answered plainly, willing to do anything to get out of stripping the dirty, smelly sheets from the bed to wash. Sex just wasn't worth the mess or the smells that came with it, at least almost, in Jean's opinion anyway. 

Pleasant nights with Marco weren't _rare_ but they'd definitely been less common, and especially not with sex involved. Last night was a win, sex be damned. The past few months, things seemed to be looking up, and he could appreciate that. It wasn't massive improvement, but Marco seemed much more relaxed and less focused on small nuisances. 

Jean began to collect their clothes from the day before, a small twinge of embarrassment getting to him as he grabbed the button-up Marco wore, which Jean had tried and failed to undo with his teeth in an attempt to be dexterously sensual. 

He tossed most of their clothes into the pile in the hallway, but stopped to empty the pants pockets. It only took once for Jean to realize that washing 30+ coins that were left in his pockets was a noisy curse, and if he'd accidentally washed one of their phones then he was a dead man.

That smile quickly faded when he pulled a plastic bag out of Marco's pockets, because it was filled with pills that he recognized. These were, without a doubt, Marco's old pain meds. But Marco had been off of them for months. He was supposed to just be taking over the counter stuff now. This stuff made him... practically _docile_.

Confused as to why Marco would still have them, and why they weren't in their proper container, Jean tossed the pants to the floor and decided to simply ask about them. He didn't think anything of it, not in that moment. 

"What're these doing in your pants?" Jean lifted the bag for them both to see clearly. 

Marco stared at the bag for a moment, eyes squinting as if he didn't know what they were. "You... you know why. They're for my back." He turned the sink off, setting his toothbrush on its charger before reaching out almost cautiously to grab the bag. 

Jean let him take it, but noticed with concern the way Marco's demeanor seemed to stiffen. Suspicion that'd been creeping at the back of his mind for longer than he'd like to admit, was finally starting to settle itself in the forefront of his thoughts. 

"I thought they stopped giving them to you? And where's the bottle?" Despite how casual he was trying to act, his doubts kept screaming at him. This wasn't right, there was so much not right with things. Everyone thought being able to walk again would improve Marco's behavior, and in a way it had but, Jean knew the way the pain medication made Marco really _feel_ had something to do with it.

Marco shrugged, avoiding Jean's gaze and turning the sink back on. There was nowhere for him to run, boxed into the bathroom with nothing to do other than pretend he wasn't done getting ready for the day. 

"Jean, you know how much I hate it when people see me taking them, okay? I don't want to announce to everyone in Wal-Mart that I'm on something. People are nosy. It's easier to just, slip my hand in my pocket, take one out, and no one notices."

Yeah, no one ever noticed, it seemed. Jean had no idea, that's for sure. "Okay well, there's no point in lying to everyone, Marco. Did you...." He sighed, glancing down as he considered what he was about to ask. His chest clenched at the thought, but, he had to know.

"Were you on them last night?" Unable to look at Marco's face directly, Jean instead looked at him through the mirror, studying his expression.

Of course Marco seemed shocked at the accusation, but all he did was shake his head. It was enough to make Jean see that he was lying.

Jean breathed out his nose and turned around, walking away from the door, "Unbelievable." It made his heart twinge intensely with pain, feelings of betrayal and disgust taking over him. One thing Jean never wanted to do once Marco was put on the pain medication was sleep with him. All he wanted was for Marco to be happy, of course, but not like _that_. Not when he couldn't be all there.

"They're _just_ for my back!" Marco insisted, a desperate lie in his voice. "God, I wasn't unconscious, Jean, they're just for the pain to go away! Why does that bother you so much?" 

"Why does it _bother me_!?" Jean scoffed in disbelief, turning back around to look Marco in the eye as he tried to lie to him. "How long've you been doing this? Wh-what was, was last night just the first time you did this or does it just feel _better_ if you're high off your ass!?" 

Marco squeezed the bag of pills, bringing it closer to him defensively, "Stop," His voice cracked, clearly he felt hurt by this somehow. "I _love you_ , okay? I just, I just didn't want to be in pain last night; I wasn't 'getting high'. They just make the pain go away." 

"Yeah," Jean scoffed, "I bet they do!" Newly aware of how his own breathing changed, becoming hastier, he tried to push down his anger. He wanted so desperately to believe that Marco wasn't relying on oxy more than his friends and family. The idea hurt Jean too much, threatening him with a burning in his eyes and an itch in his throat if he believed it.

"Don't you even _think_ about getting in that bed with me if you're high." Jean forced the words out of his mouth, because if he hadn't said that, said anything, he was afraid his fears would get the best of him and finally convince him of the truth he couldn't face.

Marco didn't say anything else, letting Jean leave without incident. Jean still saw the look on his face as he went, how strained it was, the way his eyes followed Jean like something might go wrong if he hadn't. 

Did he worry about his precious drugs being taken away from him? Not that it mattered. Marco could always find a way to get more, and Jean would find a way to ignore it. The anxious scratching, how tired Marco seemed some days for no reason, the incessant need to keep everyone from knowing he was still taking them. They were both in denial about one obvious fact: Marco was an addict.

____

Jean looked over Marco as best as he could with what little light was available, trying to see how much damage was done. But it was too dark, and he knew that turning the light on would only upset Marco more. 

"What happened today?" Jean wasn't sure what could have pushed Marco this far. The last time Marco had been stressed this much, was when he'd relapsed after he lost another job. 

Things had been going so well for them lately. Of course Jean knew by now that there didn't always have to be a "reason", but he'd seemed fine when Jean left in the morning.

Marco whimpered, bringing his free hand up to his head and rubbing it. Jean felt like he should stop him, what with the unknown amount of scratches he might agitate by mistake. Afraid of giving the impression of babying Marco, he refrained. 

"I, I called my mom today." Marco finally croaked out. His fingers that gripped the pill bottle began to scratch at the bottle, but not forcefully enough for Jean to stop him. 

"Did she answer?" The relationship between Marco and his parents was understandably the most complicated out of all his past relationships. 

Marco shook his head quickly, sniffling, and before Jean realized it, Marco was crying. "It, i-it- _fuck_ , it was my dad. H-h-he, _mmfhhm_ , told me not to c-call again or...!" 

His father really had tried along with everyone else to nip Marco's addiction in the bud, before it got serious. Or so they thought. But once he'd been convinced that his perfectly intelligent model citizen of a son had become nothing more than a "self centered and foolish degenerate addict", he'd cut all ties with Marco. 

Marco lifted his head up so fast he nearly smacked it on the headboard. "I, I hurt them _so much_ ," His grip on the pill bottle tightened, and Jean followed suit, refusing to let Marco believe for even a second that he could take those pills.

"I know, Marco, alright? I know, but that was before, you're moving past all of that! Whatever he said, you _know_ you're getting better. I know he's your dad and you love him and you miss him but, _God_ , he's not gonna believe anything you tell him. You can't listen to him." Jean urged, knowing that regardless of what he said it still wouldn't be enough for Marco to get over his father's threats and demands.

"There's just," Marco sniveled, "Nothing left. I've got, _nothing_ and he knows that! I hurt my whole damn family and I just...." He tugged at the bottle, but Jean kept his hold on it. 

Marco lowered his eyes to meet Jean's, giving him what might've been a glare had he not been crying. Even then, Jean wasn't a compete fool. There was still that fear in there, that Jean might not agree with him, that he wouldn't validate him, or that he might just... leave. 

"You have me." Jean tried not to sound disappointed, but he couldn't help it. Between the two of them, he'd always been the pessimist. Hearing time and again how lonely and isolated Marco felt? It hurt. Stating the obvious didn't fix much for either of them, especially considering Marco already knew it but still found it in him to deny the facts.

"And I know a lot of your family doesn't..." What were the right words to cushion the blow of saying that most of someone's friends and family had given up on him? "They don't talk to you so much, but a lot of them still _care_ they just, they just don't know how to help."

Marco shook his head, breathing out of his nose in a way Jean could've mistaken as stifled laughter. "You shouldn't be here." He muttered, wiping his eyes. "I screwed everything up. I let my parents down, Jesus Christ, they fucking hate me Jean, they don't want anything to do with me!" 

This was the part where Jean was supposed to tell him that it wasn't true, and something else that was supposed to make him feel better. Jean just didn't know how to. If he had time to think about it maybe, but he didn't. In the moment there was just the illusion of his own heart creaking like old floor boards about to break. 

"I let everyone down- _Look at me_ , I'm just--" Even if he didn't know, Jean still had to try. 

"Stop, Marco, okay just _stop_." Jean's own voice nearly cracked. "You're not 'just' anything. Maybe your dad's being a shit about this but you still have people who know you didn't want to end up like this. You still have friends who come here and talk to you and, and they love you Marco, okay you're _not_ whatever your dad says you are." 

He'd curse himself for how his voice shook with the hurt and anger of trying to do what seemed impossible. It wasn't like this was Marco's 3rd cousin twice removed they were talking about. How could he convince Marco that he didn't need his parents' approval? He couldn't.  
____

A poorly planned and even worse executed intervention had ruined Marco's relationship with too many of the people who cared about him. Of course, sooner or later people got fed up with Marco's behavior. And those who knew how much he'd taken a liking to his pain medication knew damn well that it was a problem.

Jean initially wanted no part in it, but, he knew he had to be there. He was almost as in denial about the situation as Marco was. Reluctantly though, Jean had agreed to the whole thing. Let the little over a dozen who wanted to be involved into the apartment, told Marco to come home early, and they waited.

The stomach ache that had been brought on due to the anxiety of anticipating the shit storm was what Jean wished would be the worst part of the evening. It only seemed to get worse when the jingling of keys followed by the opening of the front door, ceased all the awkward idle chatter.

Like moths to a flame, Jean's eyes immediately found their way to Marco, who looked awfully confused in the single moment he came through the door. As he closed it, however, there was an understanding on his face and a flighty look in his eyes. 

" _No_." He didn't take off his shoes. He didn't even set his keys down. 

"Marco, sweetie, just come sit down with us." His mother requested gently, her voice as light with care as it was simultaneously heavy with concern. 

"I don't need this. I don't need any 'help'!" He spoke the last word like it was some kind of cheap, offensive joke. 

Marco's father was far less amused by the act of defiance, "Don't make a scene out of this. We've all known for a while now that you have a problem. So sit down, and listen to what we have to say."

No one dared to interfere, Jean included. It was surreal to see Marco spoken to this way, like he was a good 20 years younger, being punished for something juvenile. And the way Marco stood his ground, arms crossed defensively, his eyes still clearly screaming with the need to run? He might as well have been 7.

"I'm not sitting down. You.... Just, say what you want to say so you can all leave." 

Jean breathed out his nose, unsure of how he felt at Marco's protest. Why couldn't he just cooperate? Standing half-way across the room looking down at everyone was just going to make things more awkward, did he not see that?

Whether the silence following had taken as long as it felt or not, the first to speak again was Marco's mother. If there was anyone there who truly believed today would convince Marco to get professional help, it was her. Likely only her. 

"Everyone here knows how hard it's been for you since the accident," She was cautious, more-so than Jean thought Marco deserved. After all, they'd come here to help him and Marco was acting like they wanted to do something sinister, or, violating. "You shutting yourself in, and then your mood swings when you lost your job...." 

" _Mood swings_!" Marco scoffed, shaking his head. He was staring at the floor now, but everyone could see him chew on his lips and scratch at one of his elbows. This was more than just uncomfortable for him, no doubt. "Okay. Sure." Not an ounce of sincerity was in his voice. 

"Now," She sounded desperate to get through to him, "We're not judging you. But when you do things like, like _that_ , it makes us worry. I- We, thought that being able to walk again might change things for you and well--"

"Well _what_?" Marco interrupted, though not looking at anyone in particular. "You all think I've got some problem because I'm not perfectly better after a few months of walking again?"

"Hey!" Eren piped up, and of course he'd be the first one outside of Marco's family to get into the conversation. "It's not that recent of a thing, you've been a complete," He quickly glanced over at Marco's mother, the fire in his eyes calming, "A complete jerk, for years now. Just let us talk, we're trying to help _you_."

Sasha, one of Marco's old co-workers, attempted to settle any additional tension Eren had caused. "I, err, well we, didn't come here to attack you it's just... _you know_ , we thought after you'd started walking, you'd get better on your own? That didn't really work out very well." 

"We're so sorry sweetheart, we tried to give you some space, we didn't want to keep smothering you when you'd been trying so hard to be independent before." Marco's mother explained regretfully, bringing her hands together in her lap and wringing them together. 

"Don't coddle him about this, it's addiction not a, not a broken bone." Marco's father scolded quietly, placing his hand on her knee in what looked like an attempt to give her more confidence. 

"You're right it was just 7 bones, Dad, did you all forget that? That that's _why_ I'm using pain medication? Because I'm still in pain?" Marco snapped, lifting his gaze slightly to look at everyone in the room. 

Jean was still far too uncomfortable to say anything, not that he even knew what he'd say if he could. He wanted to defend Marco, but he knew there was no way he still needed to be taking something so strong. Not when everyone knew he'd been cleared to take simple over the counter stuff instead. 

"You don't need to be taking something that strong--" Marco didn't let his father finish.

"What do any of you know about it!? Before, all of you couldn't stop worrying about me being in pain, and now just because I can stand and walk you expect me to be fine!" He shouted, bitterness seeping into his voice the longer he talked. 

"Calm down Marco, we're not--"

" _Don't_ tell me to be calm! You all just, come into my house, and start treating me like some criminal because you can't believe that maybe, just maybe, I'm not done healing yet! And I am _so_ sick and tired of you all looking at me like that!" Marco's voice cracked, but he squeezed his eyes shut if there'd been any tears, sending them all a glare filled to the brim with disdain and betrayal. "Like, like I'm some pathetic, mutilated little animal you pity because you just can't put it down." 

The analogy struck Jean like a needle, making him feel like he'd choke on his own air. It made his skin crawl, and he knew he couldn't keep quiet anymore. "I **never** treated you like that." His voice was steady, and he hoped his own hurt feelings were made clear.

"God forbid," He continued, his pain winning over his desire to keep the intervention non-hostile. "You're not perfect, so we see you're in a bad place and try to help you, right?" 

Marco seemed to take a special offense to Jean's words, stunned speechless as he stared at him wide-eyed and mouth ever so slightly ajar. Was he really so shocked? Jean didn't think he should've been, not with the crap he'd been saying to everyone for _years_. 

The shock had all but knocked him on his feet. "...I, I don't think I'm 'perfect'," Marco whispered back what probably had been meant to be something far more passionate. The things his parents said may have made him harsh, but the way Jean had just jabbed at him did something else. Something Jean realized too late, was deeply painful.

"You know what?" Ymir exhaled, a smile on her face most had the sense to know betrayed her true intentions. "You're right! You're sick of, how we all 'look at you', huh? What? Those scars getting to you or something? Maybe you're just pissed off all the time because Jean over here doesn't wanna fuck you anymore!"

Everyone in the room had been startled by her outburst. 

" _Ymir_ , that is _**enough**_!" Marco's mother demanded. Distress was clearest on her face as much as the anger was on her husband's. 

"This is a serious conversation and you're acting like a child!" His anger, as intense as it was, surprisingly so did not match his wife's. Perhaps he hadn't intended on invalidating her displeasure with his own.

Jean didn't have the time to think about it, too preoccupied with being able to feel his own heart as it beat faster, harder, more frantic than it had when Marco walked through the front door. He wanted to heave, to panic, to get out of there, because Ymir was too damn close to home. 

Ever since the morning Jean realized how liberally Marco used his medication? They hadn't even touched each other in that way, and to Jean it seemed like Marco never wanted to anymore. 

It had nothing to do with the scars. It never did. They were barely anything to see, they were never anything to sneer at. _Never_. For Ymir to assume otherwise was practically humiliating. 

"No, no," Ymir laughed, waving her hands at the objections before rolling her eyes, stopping them to stare at Marco. 

"Ymir just knock it off!" Her girlfriend, Historia, hissed sternly.

"Please...." Sasha added, her wincing intensifying with each incident.

" _No_ ," She laughed again, though it was no longer genuine. "He's all upset because he can't get any and his face is fucked up, right? _Nah_." Like that, her smile disappeared. "Because he's a damn addict. That's why, and we're just beatin' around the fucking bush."

Jean looked to Marco, not caring about the rest, his brows furrowed in a secret shame that only the two of them could really know about. Ymir was right. Ymir was _right_ about both things, about how sex was an uncomfortable stress in their lives they never touched on. And of course, about Marco's substance control problem.

Marco looked awfully clammy, his entire jaw quivering in such a way it was hard to tell if he was trying to speak or not. He looked utterly mortified, stripped of any dignity he might just have left for himself in his world of perfect denial. 

"Ge-get out, of my apartment. All of- of you. Get out." He stuttered out, looking around as if he were confused about whether this was actually happening or not.

"You can't just use her as an excuse to kick us out!" Eren pointed out in refusal.

"I'm _done_!" Marco gasped, bringing his empty hand up to his head and pressing his fingers against it. "I don't need help, you're just... you're just...!" He trailed off, shaking his head.

Jean didn't know what to do. He didn't have a fuckin' clue. 8 years with Marco and he had no idea what he was supposed to think or do right now. This just wasn't Marco, but then again, these just weren't the things his friends and family ever did to him.

"Are you high _now_?" Ymir asked, disbelief in her voice. It was indiscernible to Jean if it was genuine. Not that he cared. 

Marco was visibly at his breaking point, frozen still as he stared at the people in the room who'd made it more important of a goal to attack him than anything else. "Wh-what?" He whispered, sounding truly confused. 

"For God's sake Marco, you're 27 years old; Act like it and answer the question." His father sighed sternly. Jean was glad that he wasn't looking at him, because he was sure there was nothing but judgement on his face, deciding the truth before even getting an answer. 

"Holy shit did you _drive here_ on them?" Ymir prodded with a hint of amusement to her tone, which of course made Jean feel even sicker. 

Marco was practically hyper-ventilating at this point, and Jean wanted to get up and run to him, and tell him not to worry.... Because Jean didn't want to know the answer, even if he'd already decided, too.

"O-of course I.... Of course I'm using them right now!" He finally managed to spit out defensively.

" _Marco_ ," His mother gasped, "Sweetheart this is what we were talking about." She sounded so defeated, so disappointed. 

"I, I'm in _pain_ ," Marco sputtered desperately, still breathing erratically. "And n-no I didn't drive here! Wh-what kind of person--"

"But you are using right now?" His father interrupted, a coldness to his voice Jean hadn't heard before. 

"I'm in _**pain**_!" Marco shouted angrily, tears finally escaping from his eyes, "S-stop looking at me like, like _that_ ," He pleaded, pulling at his own hair. 

What was the worst, was Jean was looking at him with the same look he knew everyone else was giving him. He didn't know if Marco was lying anymore... he couldn't tell. And it broke his own heart to lose that kind of faith in someone he was supposed to love.

"Get out of m-my house...." Marco pleaded again rather meekly. He had to know that it wouldn't work. "You're all un- _fucking_ -believable." Marco spat, turning around and yanking open the front door again.

"Marco sweetheart, don't leave! You can't drive!" His mother called after him, to no avail. He wasn't coming back, not any time soon.

Jean felt shame over so many things, he wasn't even sure how to rank them. He'd been around Marco the most out of any of them, and he didn't stop him from getting this way. He let it happen, because it was easier that way.

___

"I just... I want to be _myself_ again." Marco sighed, leaning his head back down again. "A-and I don't e-even know who that is." 

Jean shifted closer to Marco on the bed, "You're getting there," He insisted gently with a sigh, closing his eyes. It wasn't enough. Not right now. Jean could have Marco record every day he had as proof that there were countless days where his life wasn't about his past, from being an addict. But even if he had, it wouldn't help tonight.

"You know how they make me feel," Marco mumbled, "You _know_." He leaned forward, resting his head on Jean's shoulder. It would have been comforting for them both, had he not implied what he did.

"Marco..." Jean was quiet, tightening his grip on the bottle, but lifting his other hand to rub Marco's back softly. "You don't need them." He shouldn't've had to say that. Why did he? Why did Marco go back so far?

"I know," Marco grunted, his voice somewhat muffled as he got more comfortable being embraced by something other than the wooden headboard. "I _want_ them." He corrected, fingers fidgeting over the plastic of the bottle with more pressure. But he was in no rush. 

Jean hoped it meant Marco wouldn't take them, but he never knew for sure. He could hide any pills he found, but he knew it only meant Marco would have to risk something to get more. Sometimes Marco got them legally, but Jean wasn't so stupid as to believe it was the only way Marco was willing to purchase them. 

"--need, I, I _need_... ffnh...." Marco's words were muffled by the coat Jean was wearing, so he slowly leaned back a little to get Marco to clarify. Even if wailing into Jean's chest made him feel better, and God knows Jean would let him do it, he still felt like he needed to know whatever it was Marco deemed important enough to say. 

"I _needed_ you," Marco gasped, squeezing onto the other side of Jean's jacket and pulling him in close again. "Th-they made it e-easier when you were gone. I _needed you_ so much, my God, I... I... loved you so much." He cried, shame in his voice where it didn't belong. 

Jean was ever curious about what Marco's father had told him now. Neither of them had enjoyed how they abused each other in the past, but, they'd agreed to never point fingers about shit choices made years ago. Even on shit days like this, Marco refrained from saying these kinds of things as best he could. 

Scolding Marco for the guilt he was resurrecting in both of them would do nothing, though. Jean knew that much. "I know... I can't change what I did then- I'm sorry, you know that." 

"What if I...? Jean, I c- _can't_ do that again. I don't want to go through it all again but, God, God, I, I-I want this to stop." Marco mumbled on, not entirely coherent enough for Jean to understand. He must've been up all day going through this in his head, over and over again, pacing around the house.... 

"It," Jean cleared his throat, trying not to break down at the memories Marco was dredging up. "It's gonna pass, okay? You'll feel better, later, or tomorrow, or--" 

"What if I can't wait that long?" Marco asked, rubbing the thumb wrapped around the bottle instead over Jean's hand. Whether that was supposed to be an offer of comfort, or just his way of trying to get Jean to give him the bottle, was a mystery. 

The last time Marco relapsed, Jean wasn't there to stop it. He just came home to... well, he'd rather not remember Marco's most recent failure. "I won't let you." Jean promised simply, knowing he'd regret the decision another day. All that mattered to him at this point was _right now_.

"...What'd your dad tell you?" He sighed, lifting his hand away from Marco's back, and instead running his fingers gently through Marco's hair again. There was the risk of bothering the scrapes Marco had made earlier, but Jean knew how much Marco loved this. 

At first, he got no response. Nothing more than the occasional hiccup, sniffle, or whimper. Jean would've loved to fall apart right along with him for once, and sometimes, Jean _was_ the one who needed the shoulder to cry on. Not like this though. He could never even begin to imagine what it'd be like in Marco's shoes. 

"Mmm.... C'mon, you can tell me." Jean hummed sweetly, twirling some of Marco's hair in between his fingers. He would be lying if he said this didn't soothe him as much as he'd hoped it would for Marco. "I know things aren't... the same, but I'd do anything for you. I'll do anything." He meant it this time.

"What he always does? I'm a failure, I'm, selfish.... Trying to ruin our family, n-not letting my mom move on. And... you shouldn't've come back, f-f-for me," Marco finally answered, so quiet, as if just by speaking of it his father might hear and punish him for it somehow. "That I didn't d-.... I don't _deserve_ what you do for me."

Jean forced himself to cough to give himself anything else to do besides talking, and began chewing on the insides of his mouth to try curbing his anger. He always knew that Marco's father had disapproved of all the financial support Jean had been offering Marco the past couple years; He'd been told that much but....

"I don't want to believe him Jean I swear but--"

"Shhh." Jean interrupted, unable to say anything else that wasn't a string of curses that would only work to drive a wedge further between Marco and his parents. He took a deep breath, blinking tears from his eyes as best he could, not wanting Marco to see. 

It clawed at his soul to think about the shit Marco struggled to make choices on, the simple things Jean didn't have to think twice about. "He's _wrong_ , and I'm not leaving." He mumbled defiantly, feeling petty as he did so. Marco's father couldn't hear him, there was no use in being so venomous. He couldn't help it though, knowing why Marco's father would be so offended that Jean cared so strongly for Marco now.  
___

Jean was the first person to give up on Marco. For the longest time, he'd convinced himself that Marco gave up first, which made it all okay.

Guilt in the months following the disaster of an intervention he'd allowed to happen, had turned Jean far more complacent than was ever in his nature. Pushing Marco to get help just didn't feel right after the crude way everyone had already tried.

Being torn inside only meant that his desire to see Marco get better was only getting stronger every time he saw Marco take a pill, any time he went to give him a kiss and noticed the slowness in Marco's reaction.

What they had was broken and it was beginning to really take its toll on Jean, and the sex wasn't even a part of the equation anymore. It wasn't something he could hold against Marco to spite him. Denying him intimacy meant nothing to him anymore because Marco no longer _wanted it_. 

Every day, Jean felt himself keep things from Marco more and more. He thought if he brought them up, it would either upset Marco, or he'd be too woozy from the drugs to formulate a proper response, or he wouldn't care, or... it wouldn't make him smile.

He was tired of it. Day in and day out of Marco doing nothing with his life, as far as Jean was concerned. It was like Marco just didn't care about anything anymore! Not getting a job, not getting help, not spending time with anybody, certainly not Jean!

Jean walked into the living room, where Marco was sitting down on the couch reading something. "Why're you home?" Jean wondered aloud, the question having been bothering him ever since he got home from a bad day at work. They both knew where Marco was supposed to be, and they both _thought_ they knew why he wasn't.

Marco glanced up, but didn't make direct eye-contact. "Because I want to be at home." The sigh of a response was tired, exasperated. He hadn't wanted to answer but, it was smart of him to. It would only make things worse if he ignored Jean.

It couldn't save them from where Jean knew this was going, though. "You're supposed to be at a meeting right now." He expected silence to follow, and part of him sort of wished it had. Then he could be more upset. 

"I'm not..." Marco sighed, closing his eyes. "I'm not going to those."

"Right," Jean laughed lightly, "Because that would mean you actually _cared_ about getting better." 

"What do you want from me Jean?" Marco turned his head to meet Jean's judging gaze, sporting one of his own. "I _am_ getting better. I'm just not an _addict_." 

There was an amount of calm in his voice that, years ago, before the accident, Jean would have seen as normal. But with all that'd happened, he assumed it was the drugs. They didn't make Marco exactly calm, but Jean had learned it made him harder to bring to anger. 

"I want you to accept that you need help before, before I don't know! You kill your liver or something!?" One of the only things Jean knew about taking as much oxy as Marco was taking was that. He was too scared to look up the rest, always afraid he'd suffocate Marco with his fears, with his damn love and care for him.

Marco breathed out his nose, annoyed, "Give it a rest, Jean, it's not like I'm taking them every day." 

Jean blinked rapidly, "W-what!? Well that's news to me; How much _are_ you having? How many did you take this week, huh? How many do you take in a month!?" 

"I take them, when I'm _in pain_." Like a frustrated and broken record. Sometimes Jean wondered if Marco said it to convince himself rather than those around him. 

"Yeah well you can start taking Tylenol for that." Jean refused to listen to him anymore. He whipped around, rushing out of the living room and heading straight for the re-purposed coat closet at the other end of the house.

Marco sensed the problem quickly, "What's the supposed to mean?" He leaned over, looking behind to see where Jean was going. 

It was a good kind of rush that Jean felt as he saw the look on Marco's face when he rounded the corner. The realization that, as much as he'd like to deny his addiction? He was terrible at keeping the hiding place for his pills a secret.

Jean pulled the door open and felt his hands around the top shelf of the closet, snatching the bottle he was after before heading to the bathroom. 

"What're you doing?" Marco called after him, the sound of his footsteps following. 

Not thinking twice, Jean twisted off the cap and poured the contents of the bottle into the toilet.

" **Jean!** " Marco gasped as he stopped in the doorway, though it was already too late. 

"You wanna fish them out of the toilet? D'you want 'em that fucking bad? Be my guest!" Jean sneered, staring Marco down. He tossed the bottle with its cap into the trash, pushing his way past Marco after he was done. 

It didn't take long for Marco to follow him back into the living room, not to Jean's surprise. "...Do you know how much those _cost_!?" Marco snapped, his calm, however genuine it may have been, shedding away rapidly. 

Jean shrugged, giving a half smirk, "Nope!" He knew deep down, that he was handling this far too childishly, but he didn't care. He was done. "But you're not getting help so I guess the only thing I can do is take the problem away from you!" 

"Really? How about, how about just being there for me--"

" _Oh_ fuck you, Marco. Seriously, _fuck you_! I've been here for you! _Everyone_ has! Wake up!" Jean shouted, furious that Marco would believe for even a second that he hadn't supported him from the beginning. 

"No, no all any of you have ever _done_ is look down on me and pity me and dote on me and, just, for fuck's sake Jean, you all treated me like I couldn't do anything, but that I somehow _should_!" Marco argued back, much to Jean's bafflement. 

"What are you talking about!? P-pity you!? You were in a fucking wheelchair! We felt _bad_ , we were worried for crying out loud! God forbid we try to make you feel better about anything!?" 

Jean remembered the nights he'd heard Marco crying alone in the bathroom where he thought it wouldn't bother Jean. The nights Jean stayed up all night just to keep him company, telling him over and over again so many times how it'd all be okay....

Marco shook his head, his lips pressed together firmly. His eyes filled with such contempt, like he believed Jean was telling the story so wrong it was a crime.

"None of you let me do _anything_ , I had to just, 'get better', I had to 'think positive', 'not worry'," He divulged tensely, the words coming out of his mouth with so much force he could've been shouting them and not sound any more clear. 

"You couldn't just," And his voice cracked as he stared down at the floor like it had something to do with the injustice he believed he'd been dealt, "Let me be upset about _one thing_! I just had to be all, _hopeful_ ," He spat the word out like it left a bad taste in his mouth, "And, and positive, and I couldn't just, be pissed about something and be sad and s--...." Marco inhaled, his eyes' attention returning to Jean. 

"I've always had to be damn-near perfect for all of you, and you couldn't _stand_ to let me be scared about something for once in my whole, entire, life!" He finally shouted, startling Jean slightly. Only slightly. 

"Getting into an accident, not being able to walk, losing your job: None of that's a fucking excuse for you to be an asshole just because we cared about you, apparently, more than you wanted! Look at yourself Marco, _fucking look_! By some miracle you can walk again, so where's your big excuse now, hm!?" Jean scoffed, so deep in his anger and restlessness he didn't want to think about Marco's explanations. 

"See, yeah, there it is again." Marco laughed hollowly, looking away. "It's the same fucking thing every time. 'Why can't you just be grateful you're alive, Marco?' 'At least you're not paralyzed from the neck down, Marco.' 'Being in a wheelchair's not the end of the world, Marco.' 'Why aren't you happy about what you still have?' 'Why can't you just be positive like the rest of us?'"

"When, _none of you_ are the ones whose life just imploded! I got my legs back and, and for what!? I still have to have all the answers, I have to be the one who makes _you_ feel better, fixes _your_ problems; I'm not allowed to have any!"

Marco looked like he just might cry, had he not been so livid. "I nearly _die_ and at the end of the day for you people it's just 'Why can't you just be so mature and positive and look on the bright side like you always do?' over and over **and over**!"

"So yes Jean I know I can walk again! I know because that's all you all care about! I, I can fucking walk but you still want me to just get over everything and move on like nothing's wrong! You want me to do and be _everything_ and I can't, fucking do it anymore! I can't! It's not fair, and it's always been too damn much, but you don't even care about what I want!"

He was crying. He was, and he was desperately trying to wipe the tears away, to keep his eyes open, to keep sending that determinedly livid glare Jean's way. "All I wanted to fucking do after the car crash was just, I don't know! Scream into a pillow and cry and complain but you never just let me for even a _second_ , and you still don't! You still want me to be this, this perfect person who's happy and nice and positive and never does or says or feels anything but what you fucking want from me!"

"Y-you wanna know why I'm taking these f-fucking drugs?" Marco pulled a bottle out of his pants pocket, much to Jean's surprise, and tossed it over to him."You all like me _more_ when I'm on those than when I'm not! And, you know what?" 

He actually laughed, really, genuinely, _laughed_. "It's the only way I know how to be that person again, to stop feeling so angry and, sad all the time because of what you all _expect_."

Jean was practically shaking with anger, from the itch in his legs to move, or run, kick something even; To the way his own skull felt like it was closing in on him, threatening to crush his brain. "...You, are an absolute fucking _child_ ," He said, far quieter than he or Marco had been before. 

"I have been here for you," He continued his voice shaking, "I've _loved_ you, and taken care of you, and done everything I _possibly could_ to keep you from wanting to either roll or _hobble_ off a fucking cliff, because **I knew** you were angry, and miserable, and terrified." 

"So if you're so damn upset, that everyone just tried to keep you from getting depressed, because you just wanted to throw some fucking tantrums," He huffed, gritting his teeth and clenching his fist around the bottle Marco'd given him. "Too fucking bad."

Marco looked shocked at his words, but stood his ground. "So? What does it matter if I'm being 'childish' when it's all I can do to get through to any of you!? I thought that, after what happened to me, you'd all realize I can't just live my life the way you all want, but nothing changed! And, yeah I got mad about it! I've been, an asshole, and bitter, and angry, but I can't just turn it off anymore! I can't just k-keep it all in just so that all of you can feel better about everything! I can't go back, Jean, I **can't** be that person again!" He whined, his breathing getting more desperate. 

"It's _killing me_ , Jean! It always has been! It's exhausting, and it hurts so much it makes me want to throw up!" He screamed, his voice breaking with the weight of his feelings. "I can't do it anymore." Marco seemed to calm slightly, but Jean couldn't be sure. 

"I can't just, keep everything in and be blindly optimistic and, just... _just_ fix everything and everyone and, be that perfect person anymore! It's _not **me**_! And it makes me so mad that you all keep saying you care but, but you can't see how much it hurts me to push myself _so damn hard_ to make you all comfortable about everything all the time because you can't do it yourselves! When that's all I've ever had to do for myself! And I thought you'd understand that, I thought you'd _see that_ Jean but you didn't, you still don't!"

That's where Jean lost it, becoming more than a bit of a child himself and throwing the pill bottle at the wall in anger, "Shut the fuck up! If I pulled half the shit you've been doing these past few years you would've left me forever ago! So don't you _dare_ say I haven't been there for you! Don't you fucking use that shit as an excuse! I got the fuck over myself when I turned 18, what the hell's your problem!?"

He took a step back, turning around in a circle and pulling at his hair as he groaned. "You, selfish, fucking _idiot_!" He was about ready to cry himself. "You chose this! Not me, not your parents, not anyone but _you_! You could have fucking said something but no, no you decided to just be immature and shut up about everything, and become a fucking druggie, and an asshole, and blame everyone else but yourself just because things got hard for you because of the accident!"

"Guess what, Marco!?" Jean shouted, walking closer to him with his hands outstretched, "It's been nearly 4 years now! You've done _nothing_ but make everyone feel like shit, and be an abusive, entitled, prick with the temperament of a damn 12 year old! The time for talking shit out came and went and you blew it! And I'm tired of being your door-mat!" 

The pain that'd been so vividly painted on Marco's face continued to sour as he grimaced, clearly resenting Jean's words. It was still there though, the pain, and it was all over Marco's face. The way his eyes just screamed _"Help me"_. 

"I'm done." Jean grunted. "I'm _leaving_." He continued, taking a deep breath. "I thought...." His demeanor softened ever slightly, and he swallowed the lump in his throat as best he could, "If you got better, if you actually _tried_...?" 

He shook his head, "Remember that time you shit on me for working at Target? Yeah well, I'm going to college. A real college, so I can be a damn adult and move on with my life." 

At one point, Jean seriously considered going to college with Marco somewhere. After the accident, however, he'd downgraded the thought, considering online courses instead of even the prospect of a long distance relationship where they could both go to the colleges they wanted. 

Neither of those options were on the table anymore. All Jean saw was an addict who didn't want help, who didn't believe Jean really loved or understood him, let alone the rest of his friends and family. 7 years of his life, loving and cherishing Marco as much as his heart possibly could, and for what? For shit, that's what.

"Sometimes," Marco muttered, "I wish that car'd just killed me." He finished cruelly, staring right at Jean, his eyes full of something Jean didn't, or couldn't, even see. 

"Bullshit. You're fucking _bullshit_ , Marco." Jean scoffed, turning around to to find his keys and get the fuck out. Out and as far away from Marco as he could. "Have fun figuring out whether you wanna pay rent or get your damn high more!" He spat finally with a glare, hoping in that moment that he'd hurt Marco in any way.

Even before inevitably coming back, Jean always wished he'd said he loved Marco before truly leaving. But if either of them really loved each other, maybe they wouldn't have treated each other the way they did. Maybe they would'nt've let things end the way they had.

___

"I'm so sorry, Jean," Marco hiccuped, fervently rubbing his hand over Jean's knee with one hand, and scratching at the pill bottle with his other. "M-my dad's right--"

"Marco--"

"You, you were right, and--"

" _Marco_ \--" Jean tried to interrupt again, to no avail.

"I shouldn't've hurt you all so much--" 

" _Marco_ , stop it." Jean pulled Marco's hand off his knee once he started to scratch. He leaned away again, but Marco refused to look up at him. 

"We talked about this before," Jean sighed, "We can't change any of that. You said some shit, I said some shit, _we all did_ , we apologized, we're moving _past it_. Thinking back on that's only going to hurt, okay, just, you can't let your dad keep you there." 

Marco still shuddered with the occasional heaving, which was only made worse by the damage that'd been done to his lungs, Jean had learned. Nights like this hurt Marco more than just emotionally. 

"I feel like I-I'm still there, Jean. I'm _34_... and I don't f-feel like it-- I _feel_ like...." Marco didn't have to spell it out for him. He felt like a child, he felt immature, he felt like the selfish, moody, careless teenager that Jean and everyone else made Marco out to be after the accident broke far more than just Marco's bones. 

Honestly, Jean wasn't feeling his age much either. This wasn't exactly where he thought or planned he'd be at 33, and he certainly didn't feel like an "adult". He felt older than he was when he was in his 20's, obviously but... this whole "adult" feeling thing had yet to kick in. It was like, the older he got, the smarter he got, the more new things he had to feel dumb and scared about. 

"Everyone feels like that," Jean mumbled, knowing for a fact that while it was different for everyone, he'd had similar talks with other friends. They were somewhat more mature but, in the end, there was no grand wisdom Marco was missing out on.

"I don't _feel_ like I'm changing," Marco breathed out hopelessly, his grip on the pill bottle as tight as ever. "Like I'm just gonna keep screwing it up." He went on, the defeat in his voice becoming more apparent.

"No, Marco, look," Jean insisted, "Look at me!" He pleaded, resisting the old instinct to try caressing the side of Marco's face. Coaxing him with that kind of affection was against the boundaries they'd set for each other, and whether they occasionally regretted the choice, Jean at least felt it was better this way. 

Reluctantly for sure, Marco did straighten up slightly, enough to be looking directly at Jean, thought he chose not to make eye contact. He instead was focusing somewhere else on Jean's face, his lips, perhaps. Jean tried not to think about it.

"Everyone knows you've tried to get clean before, without our help, and that you couldn't do it, okay? We know, but, we're really trying now, okay? The first time we had the chance we fucked it up, and then you needed our help and no one was there, but, but we all learned from that, y'know?" Jean tried to explain as best he could, still unsure, after all these years, what the right thing to say truly was.

"You're going to those NA meetings, you're going out a lot more, and you're trying to stop talking to people like Ymir, and your dad, and that one guy you tried dating a few years ago? God I don't even know his name, the _fuck_." Jean would like to pretend he bad mouthed the guy because he'd been heavily manipulative with Marco, but part of him would always feel the sting of knowing that Marco had relied on Jean so much that his desperate need to find a replacement for the love he'd lost had put him with some scumbag.

Marco shrugged lightly with his left shoulder, "I don't kn-know how long I can... do this." He confessed, glancing for a moment at Jean's eyes. 

Heart deflated, Jean swallowed again, unsure of how to react. It'd been a little over 2 years since Jean came back and they got a new apartment together, and as hard as it was? Jean thought things _were_ getting better. Marco talked to their old friends again, and in far less awkward situations, and he'd enjoyed the last job he'd gotten, and he was more willing to celebrate the holidays with everyone.... The list went on. 

"Don't--" Jean stopped himself with a frustrated grumble, cursing himself mentally as he did so. He tried really hard not to tell Marco to just stop feeling, or start feeling things. It was never as simple as that, especially when it was clear that Marco already knew, he just couldn't control the way he felt sometimes. 

" _Please_ ," Jean sighed more gently, looking Marco in the eyes even if Marco refused to do the same, "I came back to help you, Marco, I... I can't, if you stop trying."

___

An overdose: That's what it took for Jean to realize how much he still cared about Marco, or rather, how he should have cared for him. 3 years and a month shy since Jean had any contact with Marco, and but a few weeks after Marco's own birthday at that. 

It'd been a hot evening when he got the call; Marco's desperate, crying mother frantically trying to explain how Marco'd been admitted to the hospital and that because she was an emergency contact, she'd been called promptly. She'd worried that Marco would die that night, and while she didn't need to convince him, had begged Jean to visit so that he could say goodbye. 

Jean hadn't dropped everything he was doing to leave, per say, but he wasted no time. Even if Marco was fine, even if he wasn't, seeing him again was frightening and long overdue. 

He thought Marco looked bad after the accident? Well now it didn't even hold a candle to the unconscious, sickly looking body laying on the hospital bed. His heart began to race, as unease began to worm its way into Jean's mind. What if this was a mistake? Should he have just stayed home, moved on with his life? 

A voice in him somewhere whispered not to go anywhere, not yet, not without at least saying goodbye. How could he refuse? A long time ago he may have dreamed of spending the rest of his life with this man. This, by all standards, _failure_ of a person. Leaving now, when he'd nearly died again for the second time in his life, would be irredeemable. 

Staring down at Marco, Jean had no words. None that he could say. His heart, still beating all too fast for such a quiet moment, twitched in a familiar, painful way, and he remembered how much he used to love Marco. _Used to_.

At some point while he was away for college, Jean had accepted that the person he fell in love with just wasn't the real Marco. Not completely anyway. It was too hard for him to discern who'd been closer to the real thing; Marco when he'd been raised to be such a mild mannered people-pleaser, or the bitter, immature, anxious mess he only ever got to meet through that damned car crash.

He'd thought about it tirelessly on the plane ride over, wracking his brain for how someone could just snap like Marco did. Or if it were the other way around, how any amount of parenting could curb any kid's need for both attention and independence like that.

Marco always had his faults, however few Jean had convinced himself existed, but he never acted like the kind of person who wanted anything other than for everyone around him to be happy first and foremost. 

Taking one look around the hospital room? It was like Marco still didn't put himself first, just, now there was no one _else_ he could put first. No one was _there_. The contrast, from the night nearly 7 years ago, was startling. 

Still, Jean placed his hand over one of Marco's, holding it gently. It felt, like, he almost had no right to be doing so. Like this was somehow his fault, even though Jean _knew_ it wasn't. Marco made his choices. He turned down help, he did this to himself, no? 

And in the silence, Jean thought he might just stay there forever, looking down at the ungraceful figure of the man he used to adore with everything his heart could give, and arguing within his own mind whether or not Marco had this coming.

The illusion of a lifetime broke, as Marco started to stir, his eyes carefully opening to stare up at Jean. "...Hnnh?" Confusion was as clear in his voice, however much he offered, as there was on his pale, exhausted face. 

"I'm here." Jean started, ready to clear the confusion as best he could. "I, I took a plane when I heard. Just in case...." He didn't finish, but he didn't have to. 

Marco blinked a few times before keeping them wide and open, then pulled his hand away from Jean's. He looked around the room, still unsure of his surroundings. "Where's...." He rasped, clearing his throat with a wince afterwards.

"Well, uh, your mom's in the bathroom I think? I told her she should, you know go home, because... well because you'll need her more when you're out of here than when you've got doctors and nurse's everywhere ready for you." Jean explained as curtly as he could manage, glancing at the door, almost expecting the woman herself to step right on through. 

Jean's surprised that Marco didn't make some snide comment about why he'd even care that Marco's in the hospital, but, then again, he still wasn't sure who Marco really was anymore. Either way it didn't sound like it'd be in him, not without provocation. 

The two locked eyes, Jean's face struggling to stay casual, and Marco was far too exhausted to express anything other than the misery and discomfort of his situation. It was silent, and uncomfortable, and in those moments Jean knew Marco must've been remembering the same things. That same night.

How could Jean ever forget the last words Marco ever said to him? He'd thought about it over and over again on restless nights, when he was tempted to check up on Marco. But he'd denied the urge, trying his best to wash his hands of Marco and all the memories to go along with him. He had to move on.

"Were you," Jean started, tears forming in his eyes that he refused to let free, "Were you _trying_ to kill yourself?" 

Marco was the first to break eye contact, a form of shock and hurt beyond Jean's expectations forming in his eyes as he looked away. Oh if it weren't for those eyes, Jean wouldn't have a clue how Marco was feeling. But he knew those eyes, those big, bright, gorgeous brown eyes that used to fill Jean with a sense of security once. 

"No." Marco answered curtly, his voice still dry despite his earlier efforts. "I'm the one who called for the ambulance.... The first one I took just wasn't, working so I.... And then I couldn't breathe, so, yeah."

Jean would have disputed that, but by the looks of this room? It wasn't like any of his friends called for him. "How'd you get the drugs?" He asked, not remembering hearing that Marco was gonna be arrested or something. Did the police even get involved in drug overdose problems? Did they even care about behind the counter drugs?

Marco shrugged as best he could in his position, sniffling, "I fell." He muttered, just loud enough for Jean to hear.

" _Yeah_ , of course you did." Jean breathed out, a bitter, knowing smile appearing on his face, before quickly vanishing as he straightened himself out again.

"Why're you here?" Marco asked accusingly, turning his head to the other side to shoot his best glare at Jean. "You don't talk to me for 3 years, and now you're just, here? I had to almost _die_ again for you to care?" 

Ahhh, and there it was. Jean wanted to laugh, because well, that's the shitty, dramatic, typical asshole line he'd initially expected. Maybe not delivered as douchey as Jean would have hoped, for his own sake, but still.

Not waiting long for a response, Marco looked to the door again, a glint of hope in his eyes, "Is... anyone else here?" There was sorrow in his tone that gave away how he already knew there wasn't. Otherwise, they'd be in here. They'd be with him, by his side. 

Jean didn't want to get into it but, in the event that Marco's mother returned, he didn't want her to have to explain the news to her son. "Your mom said, that uhhm, after the doctors told them you'd make it, your dad left, and ah... so did pretty much everyone else." He sighed, wiping his eyes with his sleeve quickly. 

Marco pressed his lips together, giving a short nod, tears building up in his own eyes. It must have been hard, for him to realize that anyone who had shown up, aside from his mother, only cared enough to know that Marco wasn't dead. Maybe they planned to talk to him another day when he was better, but, maybe not.

"Why are you still here?" Marco whispered, his voice cracking off into more of a muted croak than actual speech. 

Honestly? Jean wasn't _entirely_ sure. "Everyone else can see you whenever they want, I guess. I haven't been able to do that, being a couple thousand miles away. I... had to see you again." He left out the part about how it might just be for a goodbye.

" _Why_?" Marco repeated in such an agitated, disbelieving way. Jean didn't blame him. "I haven't been good to anybody in, how long has it been? 7 years? So, so why? Did I really have to overdose for you to come see me? What do you _want_ out of me, Jean?" Marco looked like he wanted to sneer, but didn't have the energy for it.

Jean stared at the broken person who used to be so full of life, even when he was dark and aggressive, snapping at people after the accident... he'd still been lively. Now... what? What was he looking at? 

It was then that Jean realized how he'd started such a domino effect on the lives of everyone around Marco. He gave up on him, he moved away, he cut all ties-- He stopped caring. Part of him always prayed that everyone else would step up where Jean just couldn't, but, clearly they didn't. All he did was make it that much easier for everyone else to quit, Marco included.

"Look," Jean sighed, trying his hardest not to let his eyes tear up again, "I know we ended things on such, shit terms but... I thought, y'know, you'd get _help_. You made me feel like shit, I wasn't, _uhg_ , helping you in the way you needed or wanted.... We were bad for each other, Marco." Jean confessed, feeling as if his ribs were creaking, bending, trying to strangulate his own heart because of it.

"Some of the shit you said, it was like... I was looking in a fuckin' _mirror_. I thought that kind of crap about myself sometimes, Hell I said some of that to people! And I thought that we just... grew out of that kind of thing. You never let me get away with that kind of talk." Jean swallowed, forcing himself not to look away. 

"You made me a, a better person once, Marco." He forced out shakily, willing himself not to break down at memories of a better time. "Just seeing you act like that, it just... made me feel like none of it mattered. And when I was gone? I thought about it! I thought it was _me_ in some, fucked up kind of way, making you think you could act like that."

"But, it's not." He breathed out, blinking and taking the moment to gather himself again. "Maybe that's just why we liked each other so much? Two peas in a pod. Or whatever. Damn it Marco, I don't-- I don't _know_." 

Marco just looked on, tears still streaming down his face whether he wanted them to or not. Jean didn't know what to say, or how to say it, really. He wanted Marco to say something, anything, to just... talk with him again. 

"I was an asshole, when I left like I did. I'm not saying you were right, okay, but... just leaving after saying those things to you, and then just not...? I **shouldn't** have left. Not like that. I'm-I'm sorry, okay? I don't know what to say or what I should've done better I just... I know, right now, I know I shouldn't've just gone like that."

Marco shook his head lightly, staring up at the ceiling, and _he laughed_. It was dry and empty, as sad as any laugh could be. Did he think this was actually funny? Or maybe, he just didn't believe a word Jean said. Maybe Jean only convinced himself of those things to make leaving easier on himself.

Slightly embarrassed that he might've been making a fool of himself, Jean frowned, the frustration in him twisting, and contorting into something that didn't belong there when Marco could've died not even hours ago.

"Did you even try to quit!?" Jean barked, his fists clenched firmly at his sides as he imagined what must've been going on in the past few years. He'd made it clear to everyone that if they ever spoke about Marco to him, he would stop talking to them. And maybe they all cared about Jean too much, or just didn't care about Marco enough, to deny him that.

Marco might've kept on laughing, but his throat was too dry, and it was clear to Jean now that he hadn't found it all that funny. "I can't." He answered simply, staring at the ceiling still. 

"Did you _try_?" Jean asked with more determination, praying that Marco would say "yes".

Closing his eyes tightly, Marco turned his head away and out of Jean's immediate sight again, "...It doesn't matter." 

Under older circumstances, Jean might take that as a yes, but he just wasn't sure anymore. Not about a damn thing.

"Marco," Jean breathed out shakily, reaching out to take Marco's hand again. It caused Marco to not so much flinch as he did stir, turning his head back again to stare at their hands. "If we can fix things, we have to _try_."

The implications instilled a look of discomfort and nervousness into Marco's eyes. But Jean knew what he was offering. "I don't want you to die of a damn overdose, or liver failure, or, or whatever else that crap's doing to you." 

"Tell me you at least _tried_." He pleaded again, a mix between anger and disappointment that most everyone gave up on Marco in the ways that mattered most. He had his reasons, and some of them were selfish and dumb for sure, but there was no way everyone else would really just sit back and watch Marco slowly kill himself. 

Marco just kept staring at him, a silent promise that he'd never tell him what he wanted to hear. He looked so lonely, like he hadn't had anyone in a long time. Longer than Jean had even been away. And Jean could see it: How much Marco had missed him. 

Whatever Jean had wanted, however much pain he'd wanted Marco to feel in the past, he never once wanted Marco to die. He never hated him. He didn't want this. 

Slowly, Marco began to intertwine his fingers with Jean's, a longing on his face Jean almost wanted to give in to. But that wasn't what they were anymore, and noticing the way Jean didn't reciprocate the action, Marco sighed, attempting to pull his hand away. 

Jean wouldn't let him though, tightening his grip before it could slip away again. "Tell me!" He refused to cry here, and he wanted so badly to threaten him, to tell Marco that if he didn't tell him the truth then Jean would walk out those doors and he wouldn't come back. It would have been a lie, but it would've hurt, and it would've made Marco give him any answer; Lie or not.

With a muffled whimper, Marco nodded his head, and more tears and sniffles and choked down sobs followed from what Jean could only guess were awful memories. "But I _can't_ \--"

"No," Jean shook his head, stepping as close to the bedside as he could to try to get Marco to look at him, "Don't say that. I want to know what happened. _What_ happened?" 

More whimpering followed, more distressed than it had been, almost to the point of sounding scared. Though Marco never tried to let go of Jean's hand. 

"You can tell me tomorrow then." Jean sighed, not daring to press anymore as Marco struggled to even look him in the eyes. Jean could ask someone else, someone who might not lie to him out of fear of disappointment. Someone who didn't just have an overdose. But he wanted, and maybe needed, to hear Marco first.

"I'm not leaving." Jean tried to assure, as calmly as he could manage with all the stress. Marco cautiously looked to Jean, still trying to force himself to calm down. You didn't have to know Marco for years to know that in the moment, he was scared, and probably unsure of too many things. 

Jean gently ran his thumb back and forth across Marco's hand, thinking that maybe that'd help him at all, "I promise." 

___

"You can do this, Marco, o-okay? You didn't take any of these today, right?" Jean asked, tapping the pill bottle with his index finger, " _Right_!?" 

"N-no I haven't," Marco stammered out quickly, though not with a hint of self-satisfaction or triumph in his voice. It was as if he just assumed it was all the same, only a matter of time. 

" _Last time_ ," Jean hurriedly tried to explain, "You took these, was, God what was it," He quickly pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking the date. "Over 2 months ago! Before that it was 5-- Marco you can't just, you can't... just throw that all away." 

There had been the times where 2 weeks had been the longest Marco had gone. Marco never took much pride in it, and it always killed Jean to see that the optimistic side of Marco either wasn't there anymore, or just wasn't enough to convince him that one day he'd be completely free of wondering "when" he'd relapse again. 

"I'm so alone all the time and I _shouldn't be_ , I'm an _adult_ and the only people who want to talk to me want to ask me 'how I'm doing'...." Marco sounded more disheartened than bitter about it, and Jean could somewhat understand why. 

When all your old friends who know you're a drug addict just want to ask about you being a drug addict, it can't make spending time with them purely relaxing. 

"Everyone's just trying to help, Marco, they don't know what to do! I don't even know what to do for you, or say to you sometimes, alright? Some people just need to see that you're really getting better, and then they'll stop worrying so much." It seemed reasonable in Jean's mind. 

They'd been awkwardly poking at the subject non-stop, but Jean took his break from Marco and the subject entirely. He helped himself get better, after the tense, destructive dance that'd gone on between him and Marco for so long. Maybe that's what made it easier for him to give Marco his space on the subject than others.

" _Mm... I need you_." Marco whimpered, leaning into Jean's chest again. 

Words like that could've stopped Jean's heart, had they been true. "No, no," Jean quickly backed up, startling Marco, "You don't need me-- Not for this!" He finally let go of the bottle. Marco glanced at it, before looking at Jean, his eyes unreadable.

"I'm here for you Marco but, don't, don't pin getting better on _me_ , you still have other people who care about you but, I can't stop you from going out and getting more of those tomorrow-- That's on you." He quickly explained, shutting down any clouded thoughts Marco might've had about Jean being necessary for his recovery.

Marco stared back at the bottle, his thumb repeatedly pressing down on the child-safe tab, the rest of his fingers still lightly scratching at the rest. "It's just getting harder...."

"Yeah, well, talking to your dad sure doesn't help." Jean muttered, having half a mind to drive into the city tomorrow and give the man a piece of his mind. But call it maturity or just, being too damn tired to deal with that kind of bullshit, he squandered the thought.

"I just wanted to talk to my mom," Marco whined, "I thought, I could just tell her how I'm doing." His voice cracked at the end, and he tried to wipe away the new tears in his eyes. 

Out of all the people Marco knew, his mother was probably the only person he wouldn't get upset about asking him those unsavory questions. She may not have been the best mother, but where it counted, when it came to caring about Marco no matter what he did, she did her best.

Jean scooted closer again, not wanting Marco to feel like Jean was pissed off at him even a little. "You can call her tomorrow, or... I can call for you?" He offered, knowing that if Marco's father tried answering the phone he'd be able to handle it.

" _I_ , want to...." Marco stressed, "But I'm not even the person she raised anymore!" There, now that was bitterness. Crude and heartbroken.

"You know that's not how she thinks, she still loves you. She's _always_ had faith in you." More so than Jean ever did, evidently. "And no one's the person their parents raised--"

"She didn't raise a damn _addict_!" Marco interjected, though he didn't sound mad with Jean, just poignant in a way. 

"...You don't have to take those." Jean cautiously pointed out again, looking down at the bottle himself once more.

Marco sniffled, wiping the remaining tears from his face, " _I know_." Of course he did. "Get...." He let go of the bottle shakily, "Get them **out** of here." He demanded weakly, pulling his hand to his side.

Just short of relieved, Jean slowly grabbed the bottle and glanced at the bathroom, "D'you want me to flush them?"

Marco gently shook his head, closing his eyes, "I... I don't _know_ , I just, I don't want to look at them anymore." He took a deep breath, and Jean knew he was trying to be strong about this, but part of Marco clearly still wanted those pills. 

Slipping the bottle into his coat pocket so that Marco wouldn't have to see them for the time being, Jean reached forward to grab Marco's hand. This time he went for the one that'd been so stuck to that bottle, the one that must have been cramping and aching from being stressed so hard. 

"Marco...." He didn't know what to say, and he didn't know what to do. If he left the bottle in the house, it might tempt Marco. But if Marco was having a _really_ bad day then he might just go out and try to get them another way, and Jean didn't want him getting arrested for anything. 

"I-I'm here for you." Jean finally uttered, pulling Marco close enough to him that he could embrace him again, but in a real hug, something not being held apart by the tense, overarching anticipation and anxiety of "what if".

While he didn't act like he needed it as much as Jean did, Marco accepted the gesture, wrapping his arms around Jean's waist but letting Jean do all the real work. "I just want to be myself again." 

Carefully, and without much thought, Jean leaned his head down to give Marco a small kiss on the head. It was nothing more than that, Jean told himself. It couldn't be any more than that. "I know." 

He wanted to say that he loved him, because he did, but love wasn't going to solve anything. Jean loved Marco to death once and it didn't stop what happened, it didn't fix things. "I'm gonna be there, y'know, when you're all better?" With whoever Marco thought he would be again some day. 

There was silence, but he chose not to think too hard on it. Marco was tired, he'd had a stressful day, and it'd be best if he just relaxed and got some sleep. Jean just started to run his fingers through Marco's hair again, thinking of all the ways they could put the night behind them.

"Eren said he wants to go see some movie on Sunday. I know his taste in movies is, you know, _crap_ , but he's paying and I kind of want free popcorn." Jean began, not needing any response.

Marco would get better, _fully_ , he always did. He just needed more time, maybe more support, a non-hostile chat with his mother. 

"That stray cat that comes by sometimes? I'm thinking, maybe we should just buy a bag of cat food already. Stop feeding it leftover rotisserie chicken bits." Maybe a cat. "I thought about signing up for coupons from the grocery store? But, I know I'm just gonna waste more money trying to buy things for the coupons than just, buying stuff at full price that we actually need?" A normal conversation with someone. 

Something more than just love.

**Author's Note:**

> WELL NOW, this ended up being way longer than I had originally planned. Can you believe this was supposed to be short story practice? I did so much research on drug addiction and let me tell you, it is way too easy to get your hands on things like Oxy. Not as easy as heroin, but still way easier than it should be. If I liked writing sad stuff more I probably just would've saved this idea for a fully fleshed out story with multiple chapters but, this satisfies me as it is.
> 
> *RealFacts: Cried real tears writing this. Full blown ugly crying with that salty wet water comin down my face and all. Because I am a Baby™, and that's why I like writing happy things as opposed to this. *cough cough* Like my 200k+ word JM series that is close to completion *cough cough* checkitoutmaybe *wheeze*
> 
> **If you really want a nice JM story with addiction I 110% recommend dollyboy's fic "I'm Your Private Dancer". Very good, top quality pain, top quality porn.
> 
> Pretty please tell me your thoughts on this one! I want to know! I don't write sad things much and I want that hot feedback! It would mean the world to me. You can send me an ask or direct message on my tumblr crackerjacknotanon too if you fancy that. Thank you so much for reading!


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